


Lay Down Your Arms

by lucymonster



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Getting Back Together, M/M, Post-Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:53:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27461512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucymonster/pseuds/lucymonster
Summary: After the war, Jacen gets lost. Poe helps him find his way back home.
Relationships: Poe Dameron/Jacen Syndulla
Comments: 7
Kudos: 8
Collections: Fic In A Box





	Lay Down Your Arms

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ambiguously](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ambiguously/gifts).



> Takes place after [Competing Stakeholder Priorities](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26869753/). Recip, I'd suggest reading that one first! Passers-by, this should read fine as a standalone, as long as you're happy to take a handwavey 'Poe's on good terms with Ben Solo who isn't dead' AU at face value.
> 
> Some plot elements have been drawn from _Resistance Reborn_ , but you needn't have read the novel to follow.

Poe’s reading overnight status reports in the generator-powered light of the command tent when he gets an urgent call from flight control.

‘He’s from Ryloth,’ is all the lieutenant on duty can tell him about the new arrival who has everyone worked up. ‘Flying a modified _Sheathipede_ -class transport shuttle that looks like it’ll fall out of the sky if we don’t let it land soon. He requested you by name. We told him meetings with the general were by appointment only, but he said you’d make an exception for him. Will you, sir?’ The lieutenant sounds troubled by the idea. ‘Will you make an exception?’

Appointments and exceptions are a new thing around the Ajan Kloss base. Time used to be, if you wanted to talk to someone, you yelled their name and found them by the answering holler. Now that the defeat of the First Order at Exegol has turned the once-quiet base into a crowded bandwagon, they’ve had to adopt a more formal approach. ‘You should get an assistant,’ Finn urged Poe once, as he showed him the complicated daily schedule he’d drawn up with Poe’s meetings colour coded in flight suit orange. ‘So you don’t have to keep track of it all yourself.’

‘Only self-important assholes have assistants,’ said Poe.

Ben, whose newly scheduled duty shifts were marked on Finn’s flimsi in charcoal grey, chimed in: ‘I used to have an assistant. He was so helpful. Took care of all the banthashit I was too busy to deal with myself.’

Poe resisted the low-hanging fruit. ‘Leia never had an assistant,’ he said. ‘If she could run the Resistance off the top of her head, so can I.’ But in practice, his refusal means every officer on shift with him seems to live in a state of uncertainty over how much of his time they’re allowed to take. This is why the hollering system was better. It had a nice flattening effect on the hierarchy. Encouraged people to take initiative instead of waiting for permission and a calendar slot.

‘Yeah,’ he tells the flight control lieutenant now. ‘I’ll make an exception. Open a channel and transfer him over.’

‘Sir, the switchboard’s broken again. We’re waiting for the technician to bring auxiliary systems online, but it’s probably faster if you come up the hill yourself.’

Poe sighs. The comms tent is on top of the tall rock formation that supplies the Resistance with its warren of natural caves. The height improves signal range, but the climb is so annoying that most staff on duty there prefer to take plain packed rations instead of coming down to the mess on their lunch breaks. ‘Fine,’ he tells the lieutenant. ‘I’m on my way. See if you can get a name out of this guy in the meantime.’

Whether they succeed, Poe never finds out. He’s puffing his way up a steep rock staircase, shirt sticking to his skin in the humid heat of the morning sun, when a trill sounds from his pocket. An unknown number is calling his personal communicator.

‘Nice to finally get a hold of you, general,’ says the voice on the other end of the line the instant Poe picks up. ‘If you’re done having tea and crumpets down there, I’d really love your permission to land before my failing thrusters force the issue.’

That sardonic tone ignites a prickle in Poe. The prickle becomes an itch that becomes a jolt of recognition and a hot-cold thrill in his gut. ‘Jacen Syndulla? What the hell are you doing here?’

* * *

Crash landing. What Jacen is doing is crash landing, with a thud Poe feels through his feet as he arrives on the tarmac. A figure emerges from the billowing engine smoke, tall and rangy with a shock of bright green hair. He used to wear it as long and thick as New Republic Defense Fleet regulations allowed. Now he’s shaved off one side, exposing the stumpy, half-formed lekku he always took such pains to cover. 

The ground crew swarm the shuttle with extinguishers. Jacen stops in front of Poe, hands thrust deep inside the pockets of a sand-coloured jumpsuit. The chest bears an insignia Poe has seen once before, on an ill-fated Resistance visit to Ryloth: two arms raised to fists, the chain connecting them broken down the centre. Ryloth Defense Authority. Freedom fighters, fierce isolationists, devoted to keeping their world under autonomous Twi’lek control.

Last time the two of them saw each other, they were in their Academy uniforms – or out of them. The intervening years haven’t robbed Jacen of his good looks. The side buzz suits him, lending a tough, defiant look to the once-soft boyish features that maturity has honed sharp. He’s styled the unshaven side of his hair like Ben’s, a tousled jaw-length curtain that manages to look touchable despite its slightly greasy cast. His shoulders are strong and broad beneath the jumpsuit. For a dizzy moment, drinking in the sight of him, Poe can’t remember why they broke up.

‘You owe me a favour,’ Jacen says, straight down to business. ‘On behalf of the RDA, I’m here to cash in.’

Oh. That’s why.

If it’s true what they say, that what you dislike most in others is a reflection of yourself, then Jacen is a funhouse full of mirror distortions made to get under Poe’s skin. He’s brash and full of swagger, like a budget version of his mother’s graceful confidence. He likes to be in charge. Likes to be the centre of attention. Likes to win. All that’s fine – it led to some spectacular fights when they were together, and some spectacular make-up sex. But Jacen is also single-minded in his devotion to the cause.

The wrong cause.

That’s why they broke up. They graduated from the Academy neck and neck on every metric, with a guaranteed fast track into any fleet posting they wanted. But Jacen, it turned out, didn’t want. While Poe dutifully entered the service he’d been trained for, Jacen flaked out and went to Ryloth to ingratiate himself with the maternal side of his family. Troublemakers with no love for the New Republic. It felt like a betrayal of everything Poe had thought they both stood for. If Jacen’s back now, it stands to reason it’s not because he wants to reconnect – it’s because his cause needs something he thinks Poe can give.

It’s a shame. The new hair really does make him twice as hot. ‘You must have hit your head when you crashed that rust bucket of yours,’ Poe says. ‘I don’t remember owing you any favours.’

‘Graduation year,’ says Jacen. ‘Aurek test range. You bet me a hundred credits you could beat me in a race, and when I won it turned out you didn’t have a hundred credits, so we agreed the next time I asked for something you’d be honourbound to say yes.’

Poe’s eyebrows climb. ‘I was thinking of a blowjob or a few rounds of drinks on your birthday. I never meant you could show up demanding support for your foreign militia.’

‘Yeah, well, I’m out of other options. I need your help. I don’t care what stupid games I have to play to get it.’

Every breath tastes acrid with engine smoke and fire extinguishing agent. ‘Come inside,’ Poe says. With the state that ship’s in, there’s no way he’s getting rid of Jacen any time soon. Assuming he wants to. He hasn’t decided yet. ‘I can’t make any promises, but at least I can get you a cool drink of water while you tell me what’s going on.’

* * *

Water only goes so far. By the time Poe and Jacen have hit their stride with the discussion, they’ve moved on to a much harder bottle of whiskey stashed in Poe’s ready room desk. Never mind that the mess hasn’t even started cooking lunch yet. Mealtimes are a polite fiction in a schedule as busy as Poe’s, and Jacen never was the best influence.

‘Government-backed forces from Lessu have set up checkpoints on every trade route in the system,’ Jacen says, knocking back amber liquid like it’s midnight on a weekend in one of the grimy campus cantinas he and Poe used to haunt. ‘They want us to tithe the New Republic. These are the same cowards who were the first to kneel down and lick jackboot when the First Order invaded. They’re saying our wartime losses prove we need support from the wider galactic community. What we need is to put more resources into fortifying our own borders and defending our own people.’

‘Who are your own people, exactly?’ Poe asks. He doesn’t like the edge in Jacen’s voice. ‘Last I checked, you were as human as you are Twi’lek.’

‘Humans have the whole New Republic to serve their interests. That’s what it’s there for, no matter how much everyone talks about interspecies equality. Twi’leks have no one but each other.’

‘That’s not what your mother believed when she fought to put the New Republic in power.’ It’s not an argument Poe expects to win. He and Jacen never reached the introduce-me-to-your-family stage of dating, but he grew up hearing stories about the legendary General Hera Syndulla of the Rebel Alliance. He’s been lucky enough to meet her since. Her _Ghost_ was one of the ships that led the final charge at the Battle of Exegol. Hera is a Twi’lek who has chosen to spend her life among other species, while her son was born straddling a genetic fence with no firm footing on either side. Jacen’s perspective is different because _he’s_ different, and Poe has never really understood why heritage weighs so heavily on him. Just that it does.

He takes a stress-relieving swig of whiskey. It burns all the way down, relaxing Poe’s tightly bunched muscles as it goes. Better than breakfast.

‘My mother,’ says Jacen, ‘fought to liberate the galaxy from oppression. Now I’m doing the same for our people.’

‘Does she know you took the _Phantom_?’ Poe sniffs the air. Even here inside the cave complex with whiskey right under his nose, the smoke lingers. ‘Does she know you wrecked the _Phantom_?’

‘I didn’t wreck the _Phantom._ A refuel and a few strips of engine tape will have her right back in the air.’

‘Then what do you need me for?’

Jacen leans forward on the rickety crate Poe uses as a guest chair. ‘I hear you’re in with the fat cats these days. General Poe Dameron, head of the Resistance, hero of the New Republic. I need you to tell your buddies to keep their grubby paws away from Ryloth. To turn down the tithe when it’s offered.’ He swigs his whiskey without breaking eye contact. ‘Because if you don’t, there’s going to be a civil war.’

* * *

Whoever’s been accusing Poe of fat cat adjacency has a warped view of his situation. He’s in charge of the Resistance, yes. A battlefield promotion born of necessity, an advancement that came at a cost he still mourns every day. And it’s not exactly high prestige. The senators of the New Republic spent years mocking Leia as a paranoid hawk for her insistence that the First Order needed opposing; the ridicule did recently pause for a brief window, but only because the New Republic got blown up, and the survivors were too busy surviving to blame the Resistance for it. Now the government is back in power and it’s taken them no time at all to go from lauding the Resistance as saviours to demanding to know why they haven’t disbanded yet. The fight’s over, isn’t it? What’s left to resist?

The shock waves from Exegol are still rippling out. The galaxy is still teeming with displaced First Order loyalists, while the ranks of Poe’s fighting forces have grown swollen with trend-hopping idealists who don’t know one end of a blaster from the other. His biggest assets in the next unglamorous stage of the revolution are a stormtrooper turned rebel, a scavenger turned Jedi, and an evil overlord turned apologetic hanger-on. They’re all great people in their own ways, but none of them have the power or the inclination to influence New Republic tax collection policy. 

Especially given how badly the New Republic needs that tax. Even if Poe were as tight with them as Jacen thinks, those fat cats are looking pretty damn emaciated these days. It’s because of their desperate under-resourcing that Poe gets away with as much as he does. They don’t want to still need the Resistance. But they do.

Most of his days are spent stiff-legged and restless behind a desk, dealing with bureaucratic fallout by the cargo load and wishing he was the one flying the delivery freighter instead. Anything to get his hands on a yoke again. The unfortunate reality of his battlefield expertise is that the peace he’s made his life’s work doesn’t suit him: it’s his job to go fast so others can go slow, to take crazy risks so civilians can sleep safe at night. Or at least, that used to be his job. And he used to be good at it. Nowadays what the Resistance needs from its leader is not reckless courage but solid political know-how, and Poe is letting them down with every accord he puts off signing and every meeting he makes excuses not to attend.

He loves the New Republic. He really does. But it’s love-hate, sometimes, just like he and Jacen used to be.

On his last trip to Ryloth, he had Leia’s skirts to hide behind. Good thing, too, because even with all her skill in politics, the visit was a disaster. Crait was recent enough that the shellshocked survivors could still taste salt and smell carbon scoring. They hadn’t yet found their new home on Ajan Kloss or had any chance to replenish their numbers. They’d gone to the Twi’lek homeworld to beg for shelter and resources, and the RDA had taken them in. That act of mercy was the catalyst for the conflict Jacen’s embroiled in now: the First Order found them, and the Rylothian government sold them out in fear of Hosnian-like retribution. RDA fighters laid down their lives to help the Resistance escape. Poe’s surprised Jacen hasn’t mentioned that while he’s calling in favours.

Maybe it’s still too raw. Or maybe it’s too much like admitting mutual obligation, when all Jacen wants is to live in a bubble cut off from the galaxy, as part of a society whose acceptance Poe suspects, based on what he knows of the RDA, is deeply conditional.

Anyway. The Resistance got away safe, that day, and learned a bitter but much-needed lesson about risking innocent worlds in the fight. Apparently the Twi’leks are still at odds over it, and over how much more they’re willing to pay for their autonomy.

And Poe’s not the guy to bring them back together. He barely knows how to hold himself together. Some days, as he lies buried at his desk beneath heavy piles of bureaucratic detritus, he almost wishes the galaxy was still at war. At least back then he knew what to do.

* * *

‘They’re traitors and cowards. Collaborators. They sold out our people to the First Order, and now they want us to look to them as our leaders. They don’t deserve to be in power. The RDA–’

Jacen’s mood turned quickly when he realised Poe can’t give him what he wants.

‘–has an unbroken track record of defending Ryloth’s interests. And we have popular support. Those rich old men on the council, they know it. That’s the real reason they want in with the New Republic: to bolster their own positions. You say you’re neutral, but by sitting idle, what you’re actually doing is supporting their farce of a regime.’

This bitterness is out of character. Poe should know from all the times they’ve wound each other up. Jacen has always had a temper, but he’s never been hateful before. War has gotten in his head. Poe’s seen it happen to plenty of soldiers.

He’s been that soldier. Now he’s meant to be someone else.

‘If you want to condemn everyone who the First Order scared into submission,’ Poe says, ‘you’ve got a long fight ahead of you. Who do you think you’re talking to? I know the names of every single person who had the nerve to defy them at the height of their power, and let me tell you, it’s not because I’m good at remembering long lists of names. We fought. We won. Now it’s time to rebuild. We can’t do that if we’re fighting among ourselves.’ He reaches for the whiskey bottle, a peace offering paired with a placating squeeze of Jacen’s shoulder. ‘Let me pour you another drink. Unwind. Then once you’re in a better headspace, we can talk about ways for the Resistance to help Ryloth without picking sides between the government and the RDA.’

‘We don’t want your help. That’s the point. We want you and your New Republic cronies to butt the hell out. I’m only here to tell you–’

‘Have another drink, Jacen.’

Jacen drinks. His throat bobs beneath a smattering of green stubble, and Poe prays the liquor won’t catch fire on its way down and make things worse.

After a short silence, Jacen speaks again. ‘Remember that time we flew out to Cardota after our exams?’ His blistering voice has cooled a little, but Poe still hears the crackle of tinder waiting to spark. ‘We hiked up into the mountains with a bottle of Coreward Comfort and got blackout drunk at Clanker’s Lookout.’

‘We were lucky not to fall off the edge. I haven’t been able to touch that stuff since.’

‘Yeah. We were idiots. Aced those exams, though.’

‘Always.’

Jacen breathes out heavily. ‘I’m not actually here on behalf of the RDA. Well, I am, but they don’t like it. They’re the ones who took out the _Phantom’s_ thrusters trying to stop me. They don’t want outsiders involved at all. I just had to do something. You’re the only person in the galaxy I thought might understand.’

‘I understand,’ says Poe. Jacen snorts. ‘I really do. Want to hear about the mutiny I committed after the Battle of Starkiller?’

‘Not really,’ says Jacen. But the familiar look of interest in his eyes says he's open to persuasion.

* * *

They both flew hard that day on aurek test range when Poe lost his bet. They were in glossy new T-85 X-wings, standard Navy build, hulls emblazoned with the star-circled crest of the New Republic that back then meant pride and triumph and a promise of lasting peace. Poe’s fighter fell behind by a hair’s breadth, the work of a badly timed gust of wind or a minute variance in acceleration controls. Nothing to do with his skill level or Jacen’s.

Jacen gloated about it anyway. He grinned like he was always grinning in those days, snaggle teeth bared as he teased Poe about his split-second loss. ‘I’m a better pilot, Dameron. Admit it and make peace with yourself.’

‘You wish, Syndulla. We’ll see who’s a better pilot when our qualifying scores come in.’

Most of the Navy’s work back then was patrolling New Republic space to make sure everyone’s ship registration was up to date. They busted smugglers sometimes. That was about as exciting as it got. Safe in his dormitory bed at night, Poe would dream of chasing pirate vessels down the Kessel Run or the embattled Tashtor sector hyperway, dodging laser blasts and firing to disable, not destroy. The Empire had trained its armed forces to shoot at lifelike holos; the New Republic used plain round targets. Robust defence was necessary, but actual war was unthinkable. Soldiers would never again need to know how to take a life.

Jacen’s roommate was out on field training that day, so he took Poe back to his room and bent him over the side of the bed. With lube-slick fingers buried deep in Poe’s ass, he said: ‘I think you like losing to me. It gets you hot.’

‘It’s the novelty,’ Poe gasped as Jacen rubbed his prostate. ‘It happens so rarely.’

Jacen pulled his fingers out and replaced them with the blunt head of his cock, pushing in the barest fraction of an inch. ‘Say that again, I dare you.’

‘Are you ever planning to fuck me, or do you want to spend the whole night masturbating to a lucky fluke?’

Later, when they were both spent and sticky and catching their breath, Jacen started again. ‘I can give you flying lessons, if you like,’ he whispered in Poe’s ear, playfully seductive. ‘Teach you how to do it like I do it. Especially if it ends this way.’

Neither of them ever seriously thought it would end any other way. They were light as the winds they flew on, two headstrong, cocksure kids who’d never been in a real fight. Always smiling. Always teasing each other. The war hadn't happened yet; their hands were clean; refractory periods were a suggestion, not an order. ‘Funny,’ Poe said, wrestling his way on top of Jacen, ‘I was thinking of making the same offer to you. Your technique needs some work.’

‘Oh, does it? Let’s see what you can do, then.’

Jacen pulled his knees up to his chest, inviting Poe to take his turn, and for a while longer everything between them was great.

* * *

‘Politics? Waste of time. You’re making the exact same mistake the last two attempts at a Republic made. Too busy making nice with each other for anyone to step up and actually lead.’

They’re drunk, gloriously drunk, sprawled on the floor beneath Poe’s desk tipping the last drops of whiskey into their mouths from the empty bottle. They’ve been trying to fuck, but they’re not as young as they used to be – with liquor coursing through their veins, neither of them can keep it up for long enough to get it in. Poe’s holding Jacen’s half-hard cock through his half-buttoned fly, stroking when he remembers, but it’s not enough to keep Jacen’s mind from drifting back to bad places.

‘Shut up,’ Poe says. It’s the closest thing to a counter-argument he can think of in his current state.

‘Won’t. You know I’m right. The Empire and the First Order kriffing sucked, but at least they weren’t afraid to fight. None of this group hug banthashit. None of this “oh, after you, Coruscant” and “no, really, Corellia, I insist”. Do they even let you out any more, or are you trapped in this stupid office doing paperwork?’

‘There is _so much_ paperwork,’ says Poe, heart sinking at the mere mention of the word. ‘They have policies and procedures and forms … you can’t blast anyone any more, even if they’re wearing one of those stupid little caps and yelling “long live the First Order” at the top of their lungs. You’re supposed to apply for permission, and by the time they’ve processed your application, the bad guys are long gone. But that’s the price, right? It has to be illegal to blast people, no matter how much you hate them. Otherwise we’d be no better than the First Order.’

Jacen makes a disgusted noise. ‘The New Republic is better than the First Order by default. But not much better. I’m done with unity. Real Rylothians want no part of your alliance.’

‘And you’re a real Rylothian, are you? Realer than the government you’re fighting?’

‘You know it.’

Poe has a vague sense that what Jacen’s saying is shocking, both in its own right and for how out of character it is coming from the bright-eyed Rebel hero’s son he used to know. Maybe tomorrow when he’s sober he’ll be able to articulate why. For now, he just busts out another ‘Shut up,’ and steals a kiss before Jacen can say anything else stupid.

Their tongues clash messily. Their mouths taste of whiskey. Poe’s drunk cock twitches to life for another try at getting some action, and he’s hooking Jacen’s leg around his waist when the ready room door opens and a voice says, ‘What the hell?’

Poe breaks the kiss and looks up. The room is tilted sideways. 'Hi, Finn. Hi, Ben.’

‘Ben Solo?’ Jacen sits up too fast, knocks his head on the underside of the desk, and immediately lies down again. ‘Wow, you got a lot taller. I don’t know you,’ he adds to Finn, staring up from the floor. ‘But you’re very handsome.’

‘Poe,’ says Finn, ‘it’s not even twelve hundred hours. We were coming to see if you wanted an early lunch. How much have you had to drink?’

‘Just one,’ says Poe, waving the empty bottle.

‘Okay. I’m going to get you two some water.’

‘Water’s boring. Get more whiskey instead.’

But the party’s over. Somewhere inside his sodden mind, Poe knows it’s for the best.

* * *

A long afternoon nap takes the last of the fun out of the alcohol consumption. After that, it’s just stale mouth and acid stomach and the traces of a headache that Ben’s hangover cure – produced with surprising speed and confidence, given how straight-laced the guy acts – can’t save him from completely. Poe feels groggy and exhausted. In his Academy days, he could shrug off a bout of day drinking like it was nothing. He’s older now. The consequences have aged with him.

He’s in his own bed when he wakes up. Jacen is nearby on the couch, propped up on pillows and sipping an electrolyte solution.

‘Coming to you was a mistake,’ he says when he sees Poe’s awake. ‘I need to get back home.’

‘What are you talking about? Your ship’s a mess, and you’re sure as hell not taking mine. You can’t go anywhere.’ He blinks a few times and says: ‘Jacen, you don’t seem like yourself.’

‘How would you know? We haven’t seen each other since we were dumbass kids. You have no idea who I am now.’

Poe has some idea. If he hadn’t been forced to step up as leader – if he hadn’t called the shots at Exegol, if he hadn’t learned his lesson at Crait, if he hadn’t, if he hadn’t – maybe he and Jacen would still be too alike to stand each other, like they used to be.

‘We’ll help you fix the _Phantom_ ,’ he says. ‘But only because I don’t want Hera to have to see what you’ve done to it. You’re stuck here at least until repairs are done. If that’s a mistake, you’re just going to have to live with it.’

* * *

The slow march of bureaucracy stops for nothing and no one. Poe spends most of the next morning firing off apologetic emails to contacts he left waiting overnight, asking for an extension on the due date for that report or a resend of the time-sensitive download link for that file. His single day’s lapse has put him hopelessly behind on his workload, and his usual helpers, whether in support of his perceived new alone time needs or in disgust at the drunken scene they witnessed yesterday, are nowhere to be found. Jacen scoffs so much as his _cushy new desk job, Dameron, look at yourself_ that Poe has to kick him out of the command tent before he blows his top.

Of course, he can’t leave Jacen to wander the base unattended. Not after the hostility he’s expressed towards the New Republic. Poe may not be a master politician, but in this case he manages to sidestep some of the awkwardness of essentially placing his own ex-boyfriend under arrest by saying: ‘It’s a regulation thing. You can go wherever you want, as long as it’s not into sensitive areas. Don’t take it personally. Even as general, there’s only so much I can get away with bending the rules.’

He tracks down Finn, Ben and Rey to try and have them act as chaperones, but it doesn’t go well: apparently Ben and Jacen already know and despise each other from a childhood that included forced playdates, shared family holidays and a brief stint as classmates at Jedi school. Strange how loose threads always seem to find a way to tangle. Because, oh yeah, apparently Jacen’s Force-sensitive. Another part of the jigsaw puzzle identity he’s at war with, one he kept hidden from Poe while they were at the Academy. Back then, if he’d known, Poe might have teased Jacen about using precognition to cheat. It feels wrong to start the joke now. There’s something just a bit too casual in the way Jacen shrugs and says, ‘Yeah, the Force was never really my thing. Sometimes even I forget I can use it.’

All the affected indifference doesn’t stop him from slipping back into the tent later and asking, in a hushed voice: ‘So, Ben’s been with the Resistance all this time? I didn’t think … I mean, I heard rumours…’

‘They’re true,’ Poe says. ‘Or they were, anyway. He came good in the end. Without him and Rey, we wouldn’t have stood a chance against Palpatine.’

‘Right.’ Jacen’s green brows furrow. ‘But he walks free while I’m treated like a dangerous infiltrator.’

‘So far, he’s been a lot more use to the Resistance than you have. You want to join up? We’ll take you, and then you can enter all the sensitive areas you want.’

‘That so?’ Jacen looks Poe up and down with eyes that remind him of absent roommates and rumpled bunk sheets. But Jacen just walks away, back out of the tent before his minders come looking.

Two hours later, official news channels explode with reports that bombs have gone off on the outskirts of Lessu.

* * *

Rebel Alliance history was a mandatory part of the Academy curriculum. Jacen used to complain about it all the time. ‘I know this stuff already,’ he said, as they lay on the grass outside the library skimming through datapads full of old battle records. ‘Mom never let up about it.’

‘Not everyone’s descended from Alliance royalty, Your Rebel Highness.’ Poe’s own parents were always quiet about their own part in the war. There were things about their service that he learned for the first time in class. ‘If you’re so far ahead of the rest of us, why don’t you write my essay for me?’

‘Nice try.’ Jacen rolled onto his back, mussed hair blending into the lawn, gazing up at the sky with a twinkle in his eyes. ‘These reports make it sound so boring. It must have been exciting, don’t you think? Fighting the Empire. Getting to fire an X-wing’s weapons for real instead of aiming down the firing range while some crusty old lieutenant yells at us.’

‘Hell yeah.’ Not all cadets got yelled at as much as Poe and Jacen, but they were neck and neck on that count just like on everything else. ‘It’s never gonna happen, though. The last puddles of Empire got mopped up years ago.’

Poe kept believing that right up to the moment he entered his first dogfight for the Resistance. Nothing in the books or on the firing range prepared him for the electric feeling of his cannonfire punching through the hull of a First Order TIE. He never was one for introspection. Didn’t waste much time afterwards reflecting on the enormity of having taken a life. He rode the high until it mellowed into warm satisfaction at having done the right thing, served the cause, stamped out a threat. He thought briefly of calling up Jacen and saying: ‘Hey, remember those responsibilities you skipped out on? Well, they just got real. I’m out here in Wild Space kicking ass while you rub your grandpa’s feet and listen to his war stories.’ Maybe it would have nettled Jacen into flying out to join him, and after the fight they could have fucked in _Black One’s_ single-seater cockpit. But the space was so cramped and the logistics so difficult that Poe never made the call.

* * *

For the second time in two days, the tarmac is rank with smoke. Chaos surrounds the repair bay where the _Phantom_ was receiving repairs. ‘He wouldn’t stop,’ a mechanic tells Poe, pinching his bloody nose. ‘We told him it wasn’t safe to fly yet, but he pushed right past us.’

A single thruster roars briefly to life then putters out, exhaling more smoke. Poe plants himself outside the _Phantom’s_ airlock, folds his arms and waits. Jacen’s not going anywhere with those repairs outstanding. Is he far gone enough, or panicked enough, to try and steal a Resistance ship? Poe prays to anyone who’s listening he won’t find out. Half of him doesn’t want to have to stop Jacen by force. The other half is afraid he’ll enjoy it too much.

When Jacen finally gives up and disembarks, he doesn’t rush for the nearest unmanned fighter. He doesn’t look crazed. He looks defeated, and it doesn’t suit him. Poe’s gut clenches.

‘I heard something funny on the news just now,’ he says when Jacen stops in front of him. ‘Apparently your righteous brothers and sisters in the RDA have launched a domestic assault on a government installation. When you said civil war was brewing on Ryloth, I thought it was hyperbole. I didn’t realise it meant you were planning to start one yourself.’

‘I didn’t know,’ Jacen says, sounding stunned. ‘I mean, I knew, but I didn’t think … it wasn’t meant to happen like this. They were supposed to wait. Poe, I have to get back there. You have to let me take a ship.’

‘I don’t have to do anything. You were right, Jacen: I don’t know you any more. Your mother fought for the right of all worlds to choose their own leaders, and you’re out here trying to topple a legitimate government because you disagree with the compromises they made to keep Ryloth alive through one of the most dangerous military occupations in history. How the hell do you think this is going to end? How many of your people do you think are going to die while you fight over who’s better at protecting them? You’re out of your goddamn mind.’

‘Legitimate government?’ Jacen spits. ‘They sold out our people to the First Order!’

‘No, they sold out _my_ people to the First Order. Your people got in the way of that, and I’m deeply grateful that your sacrifices allowed the Resistance to live another day. But the First Order’s gone now. There’s no good reason for bombs to be going off on Ryloth.’

‘You don’t understand.’ Jacen’s voice cracks. ‘We’re not terrorists, Poe. Or tyrants. It’s not like that. We’re Rylothian. Our autonomy is all we have. All we want is to stop our leaders from shackling us to the New Republic.’

‘I disagree. I think what you are is warriors who’ve been at war too long. You want to find a new enemy now the First Order’s gone, because if you’re not fighting someone then you don’t know who the hell you are. Of _course_ you’re angry. We all are. What the First Order did to us was terrifying. But just because we had to get mean to beat them doesn’t mean we have to make violence a permanent part of who we are.’ The smoke is in Poe’s face, making his eyes water. He’s so angry he could combust. Angry at Jacen’s dumb decisions? No. Angry at the moral damage they represent - the invisible war wounds - and at how easily he could have gone the same way if he weren’t tethered by the weight of all the people depending on him to lead. 

‘You don’t–’

‘I understand better than you think. We’re fighter pilots. Fighting is what we do. There are days I’d blast my own reflection if I thought it moved funny, but I’ve learned to check myself every time I feel my finger inching towards that trigger. If I can, you can. Neck on neck at everything, remember?’ Jacen stares at him. His eyes are watering too, and Poe knows it isn’t just the smoke. ‘I think you came to me because deep down you knew you were out of your depth. You don’t hate the New Republic, no matter how many slogans those extremists have filled your head with. So you came back to the last thing you remember loving about it.’

Jacen makes a choked sound. ‘Who said I ever loved you, asshole?’

‘Get the hell inside before I have you arrested for attacking my people.’ Jacen opens his mouth. ‘Nope. Don’t want to hear it. Move.’

For a wild half-second, Poe thinks Jacen is going for his blaster. But all he does is shove his hands deep inside the pockets of his jumpsuit. He hunches his shoulders. Lowers his gaze. Plods off the tarmac towards the cave complex where Poe has his private quarters.

Poe’s throat feels gummed up by a gluey mix of anger and empathy. He forces more words out anyway. ‘Jacen,’ he says to his old flame’s retreating back, the stump of a malformed lek bulging from one side of his close-shaved scalp. ‘You came to the right place. I still owe you from that race on aurek range. Ask me to help get you out and I’ll be honourbound to say yes.’

The lek twitches. The rest of Jacen keeps walking, but Poe knows he heard.

* * *

Scout reports say the fighting has spread like wildfire through Lessu’s major strategic sites. Neither side is accepting the New Republic’s calls. Even if they could get through, they wouldn’t have much to offer in the way of help – they barely have enough of a Navy to protect their own borders, let alone step in as peacekeepers on an unallied world.

Poe meant it when he told Jacen he understood. From what he knows of the RDA, they’re good people: brave, disciplined, passionately committed to their ideals. The First Order occupation must have broken something inside them. Driven them to extremes they never would have countenanced if not for the traumatic reminder of their ancestral oppression. There’s hope that their more moderate members outside the Lessu hotbed will find a way to stop the violence from spreading to other cities.

But there’s nothing outsiders can do about that. Poe’s only priority right now is Jacen.

They sit together on the side of a high rock face up the hill, just out of view of the comms tent but close enough to benefit from its clear signal. Jacen is cycling through all available long range channels for up-to-date news on the conflict. There are half-crescent dents in his palms from where he’s clenched his fists too hard, but they’re fading a little as the chatter turns to static. It’s night time on Ryloth. The battle has wound down for today. There won’t be any more news unless Jacen makes contact with the RDA directly, which Poe is absolutely not planning to allow him to do.

‘You were right,’ Jacen says, gazing out on the treetops stretched before them like a bristling lawn. ‘I knew, deep down. I just had no idea how to put down my blaster. It felt like I’d already gone too far.’

‘There’s no such thing as too far,’ says Poe. ‘So you got a little caught up in your ideals and accidentally joined a militant faction bent on seizing power by undemocratic means. You have no idea how many of my nearest and dearest can say the same. It’s not that big a deal.’

Jacen gives him a disbelieving look.

‘Well,’ Poe amends, ‘it’s not the tiniest deal, either. But unlike some ex-militants I know, you don’t have any blood on your hands. What’s happening in Lessu is not your fault. I’m just glad you got out before the shooting started.’

‘My friends are still in there. I can reach them, Poe. I can make this right. If I just go back–’

‘You know it doesn’t work like that. The only thing you’ll be doing if you go back is joining the fight. And once your ship’s fixed I can’t stop you, but I don’t think you should.’

‘I used to think war would be so exciting.’

‘Yeah. Me too.’ Poe laughs, but it’s relief, not humour. ‘I don’t know about you, but I think I’ve had enough excitement to last me for a while. My cushy desk job you’ve been making fun of? Not so bad, compared.’

Jacen stares out at the trees for a long, silent minute. ‘Do you have any more of those?’ he says at last. ‘Desk jobs, I mean. Temporary ones,’ he adds quickly. ‘The _Phantom_ could be a while in repairs. I’ll need something to keep me busy while I decide what’s next.’

He’s clenching his fists again. ‘Yeah,’ Poe says, trying his best for Jacen’s sake to make the words sound casual. ‘There’s never a shortage of work around here. We can probably find a spot for you while you’re killing time.’ A mischievous impulse strikes. ‘Finn’s been saying I should get myself an assistant.’

Finally, Jacen tears his eyes off the foliage. ‘I’m not going to be your kriffing assistant,’ he says, scowling.

‘Beggars can’t be choosers, Syndulla. It’s a good job. Lots of perks.’

‘Oh, yeah? What kind of perks?’

Shifting carefully on the rock face, Poe kisses him. It’s not like they ever used to do it, not like how they did it over that bottle of whiskey. It’s slow. Gentle. Full of emotions Poe has no idea how to put into words. They’re fighter pilots, never famous for their introspective tendencies. Some things are better acted on than talked about.

Jacen kisses back. It’s probably a good distraction from whatever miserable thoughts are churning in his head. He grabs Poe’s hair and pulls him closer, stubble rasping on stubble, and when they break apart he says: ‘We’re going to fall off this ledge.’

‘It’s never stopped us before.’

‘True.’

They don’t fall. They balance, holding tightly onto each other until they’re flushed with want and clammy from the relentless Ajan Kloss heat. The abandoned radio crackles beside them, bringing no more news of bloodshed to disrupt their truce. It’s like it used to be, but better. They’re older now. Smarter. Maybe – just maybe – their relationship is worth another shot, since they'll be seeing more of each other anyway.


End file.
